John's Birthday Present
by Onemoremiracleforme
Summary: John's birthday is coming up and Sherlock has an idea for a birthday present. But will it go down well with John? Sorry, I suck at summaries. T to be safe. I do not own anything although I really want to.


**Author note: This is my first Fanfiction, so be nice. Sherlock is a little OOC, but I thought it would be quite cute. **

Sherlock looked out of his window, holding the violin and bow limply by his sides. The night sky stretched across the horizon of the London city, capturing the moon in a cloudless landscape. He was deep in thought, and the window carried a perfect tranquillity for such a task. His brain moved with swift speed, calculating suggestions and throwing the unhelpful ones away; which seemed like every single one.

John's birthday was coming up, and Sherlock was trying to think of something to give him.

The last time he had brought a present for anyone, it was for Mycroft's 21st, and even that wasn't really a present. But John was special, and he deserved a present just like him – perfect.

Sherlock had started to feel very weird around John recently. Not a bad weird, but a good different. At first he thought something was terribly wrong with him; he had butterflies whenever John's smile came to view; his stomach flipped when John had laughed at experiments going wrong or at the end of finished case in the hallway; and his own mind a funny haze, happiness when John was just near him, his presence tingling Sherlock's body and surrounding it with goose bumps. He had never had this before with anyone, just John.

It took Sherlock an embarrassing month and 7 days for the realisation to sink in. He thought, knew, he was in love with John.

But although this recognition was a positive influence in his behaviour, he also had the feeling of dread that John would never reciprocate. This unrequited love was slowly crumbling him down. But the worse thing out of all of this was that hope never faded, and pulled Sherlock along with an invisible string. In the lonely nights when he looked to the room above, thinking about John, he wished that the hope would just leave him in peace. It was impossible for anything to come of it.

Sherlock sighed, feeling resigned. He had to buy a present that looked platonic but something that John wanted. However, John had nearly everything he wanted; or so he said once when Sherlock had asked him, inconspicuously, if there was anything he needed.

_"I have nearly everything that I could wish for. I have a great flatmate/colleague/friend, I don't have a limp anymore because of said friend and the excitement he gives me and because of said friend I have other's who care for me. I have a roof over my head because of said friend, and a lower rent pay than strictly necessary because said friend helped to kill our landlady's husband. What more could I want?"_

A smile had flitted over Sherlock's face as he thought back. John looked absolutely spectacular that night. Scotland Yard were hosting a 'party', loosely called; Sherlock thought it terrible to be associated with the slow paced 'entertainment'. John had gone through a rigorous amount of preparation that day though, while Sherlock did as little as possible, and when John stepped into the living room with his hair finely tousled and a red button down shirt, a black cardigan and black jeans; Sherlock just had to hide his mouth hitting the floor and his eyes open wide with a well timed cough as John had looked quickly at him.

His sociopathic shell was slowly falling down. The diagnosis since he was 16 was being proved wrong, by a doctor none the less, and that filled him with a little hesitation, but also with a little glee. He didn't know why, he never really did when it came to the army doctor.

So, the present? Present? A present for John? Kind, sweet, loyal and always-there John.

Why was John an impossible enigma that Sherlock just couldn't wrap his mind around? Why was he being so difficult without knowing he was being so difficult?

'Why's' were not going to get him a gift. Why was this so hard, and how did normal people manage to do this for friends, boyfriends, girlfriends and family?

He groaned with frustration.

A new phone? No, he had gotten one recently, one with no engraving or clues of his sister; one that he could personalise himself. A new sweater? No, although he knew John's size, he didn't do any other clothes shopping than suits and he didn't know the patterns that John would love or hate. A new suit then? No, John always disapproved of using formal wear as a casual outfit, and complained about Sherlock's tight fitting shirts, apart from the purple one.

Sherlock threw his violin in its case, not at all gently, and started to pull at his hair, trying to think of other possibilities. Why was it this hard?

Could give him some money? No, John would feel like he was a charity, and he tried to be independent as to not suck himself into a loan with friends. A new mug? No, John liked his army one and a mug was too plain for friends that have been together for a while. Tea Bags? John was oddly fond of tea, almost an obsession with the drink, but tea bags were a pathetic gift.

What then?

Would John want something personal if he wanted anything? That sounded like a good idea, a very good idea for John's sentimentality.

Sherlock began to think back through their times together and began to think of all the pictures that they'd had in the past. He could take some and make a somewhat collage of them.

That was a really good idea, but it felt like Sherlock needed to get more than just that, although he knew John would love it, hopefully.

John like poetry, he writes it enough to his stupid and idiotic girlfriends. Sherlock skipped over the jealously that had bubbled inside of him and sought to this new idea.

A poem.

For John.

This wasn't him. He would never consider writing poetry or making gifts before John. He would never even lift a finger for most of the 'so called' necessities in life before John. But that was the point. 'Before John' was a deep pit of despair, cocaine, alcohol and total boredom. 'With John' is a time period of absolute bliss, although it can get boring, and John makes him eat and sleep at least 5 times a week. That was just a way John used to show how much he cared, and so with this, Sherlock would do the same.

Sherlock fell down on the sofa, slightly defeated in this aspect, but John would like this. It would show the effort that he had put into this, into him, and at least make him smile on his special day.

Sherlock reached over to the table where a pen and notepad were placed for memos or notes. Clicking the pen up and down started to become a habit as Sherlock tried to think of anything, something, to put down on the blank sheet.

_John,_

_A poem can hold many unsaid words,_

_Thoughts and feelings that are forever_

_They show joy, glee, heartbreak and woes_

_But no one ever sees the hidden treasure_

That was quite good, bit too un-Sherlock for his liking but it was quite good. It didn't show anything other than friendship in it. It wasn't long enough by itself, but he could put it with the card.

Oh, the card.

Did he need a card? It was probably a social faux pas to not give a _birthday _card on someone's _birthday_.

He needed to buy one before next week. Once noted Sherlock focussed once again on the poem. But after a while with nothing else written down, Sherlock started to just write anything.

_John,_

_I am hanging on every word you say_

_I am falling in your deepest blue eyes_

_And although what I'll say will sound cliché_

_But it took me a while to realise_

What is that? That is not emotionally indifferent; that is a statement of love.

If John were to read that, it would make him run for miles, move out as to not make things awkward between them and then it would be the life he had before John. That was a place Sherlock was not willing to go down.

But his mind kept writing, and his scrawl rolled across the page, confessions of attraction surrounding every sentence that was written. He was pouring his heart out and it made him feel a little lighter, especially since John was never going to see it, and it felt like a weight had been risen off his chest.

Finally, when he had vented out all the thoughts he could, he ripped the page out, rolled it up into a ball and threw it into the bin. It was a hopeless cause anyway; John would find it stupid or funny.

Maybe he could just skip the poem, and just have the photographs – good idea.

0o0o0o

Finding a picture frame was easy; silver frame that curved and swirled in and out with enough space to fit lots of cuts from pictures. He even managed to get a small engraving in the top corner, diagonally written were the words 'Best friend'. It was finding any pictures with Sherlock smiling that was tricky. So for the rest of the week he carried a camera around with him and John. Taking pictures wherever he could, mostly just of John, taking some to keep for himself.

The next day from finding the frame, in Angelo's restaurant, Sherlock had asked a waiter to take a picture of them at the table. Sherlock thought it a brilliant idea, with the candle in the middle. It would make John happy to at least get one smiling picture of Sherlock. Also, if this worked out, he could put this one in the middle of John's gift.

John agreed and the waiter took the picture, gave it back to them and walked away to take a customer's order. Sherlock looked at the photo and smiled brightly at what was before him.

John looked stunning, his beaming face lighting up the picture more than the candle or anything else, his eyes were drawn to John at first. Then he looked at himself, his face looked so happy. Sherlock had rarely seen a photo, that he was forced into most of the time that looked this good.

"Come on then, let me have a look?" John said from across the table, but somehow his voice sounded closer. He passed it over and awaited John's judgment.

John's face went from curiosity and anxiousness to a full blown grin. "You look wonderful."

_You look beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, absolutely perfect._

"You too. It's a brilliant picture." John nodded and passed the camera back, flicking through the menu again.

Sherlock placed it in his coat pocket and watched John's tongue wet his lips as he looked through the set of choices.

"Will you eat today?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze to John's eyes, "I think I will."

John smirked smugly at this as Sherlock tried to prove him wrong on most nights. Often enough, John told Sherlock to eat and he wouldn't, but if he asked Sherlock he would chose for himself and make himself feel the 'leader' in this mixed up situation.

Though there was one thing that he wanted to ask. "You haven't had a case in a while and yet you haven't been shouting 'boring' and your state of mind has been almost normal, no offence. I was wondering why?"

Sherlock didn't want to say anything out of the ordinary and put John on high alert. He hadn't taken a case because he couldn't drive his mind onto anything else other than what John will think, say, do when he sees his present.

But, of course, he had missed work terribly. A tiny part of his brain had been screaming at him to just take one small case, one little client, to take this boredom away. But he relented, choosing instead – John.

"They didn't interest me and Lestrade is capable of solving them without me. He is very clever and I have all faith in him. There was a reason he became a DI in the first place." John smiled lightly at that, seeing behind the cold exterior down to the human that tried to hide his inner emotions.

A waitress came over to them to take their orders, and leaving them alone once more. John looked curiously over to his companion.

"Are you sure you're alright, you haven't been yourself over the past week and I'm becoming concerned." John said, with an air of sincerity in his voice, to which Sherlock replied with a slight smile.

"I thought you would have found that quite agreeable, considering my 'normal' self is, and I quote from you, 'An insufferable twit, a pain in my arse that won't go away'." Sherlock's impression of John was scarcely brilliant to John, even though he wanted to deny what he had just thought.

"You and I both were having a terrible day that day, and I'm surprised you haven't forgotten or deleted it." John voiced his positive opinion. Their dinners had come quite quickly, Sherlock mused as their plates were set in front of them. Angelo's influence though. John plopped a piece of chicken in his smile, and moaned slightly.

Sherlock waited a while before speaking, as his eyes were focused completely on John, and the noise he made had made him light-headed. "I never delete anything about you, I keep a note on that room telling me to 'never get rid'. This is quite annoying since you forced me to watch _Star Wars_ and I can't get it out of my mind, because you said it was one of your all time favourites." Sherlock had done his impression again, with mockery added to it.

John gave him the Just-shut-up look; he uses it a lot, but smiled after. "I had no idea how much I meant to you." He murmured, not really wanting Sherlock to hear, but of course he did, but as he knew it wasn't for him to listen to, he didn't reply verbally.

_You are everything, John._

0o0o0o

It was only two days to go before John's birthday and he was still none the wiser to Sherlock's plans. Feigning an excuse that he needed to talk to Lestrade about something, Sherlock actually made a trip to see John's sister further down south London.

It was a big house by the looks of it. There were steps leading to the red front door. There were also two windows on the bottom and upper floor with different coloured curtains behind them.

Upon arriving in a black taxi, he saw two silhouettes through the thin curtains, quite close.

He paid the driver, walked to the door and rang the bell. A typical ring could be heard through the door and Sherlock waited, begrudgingly, patiently for any sign of the door being opened soon.

As the door was finally opened, he saw John's sister. Immediately, he saw similar appearances between John and Harry. They both carried the blond hair, though Harry's was slightly brighter and carried no traces of other colours; they both had similar smiles, though John's was a warmer on and they were both nice to Sherlock, of which he was happy about.

"You're Sherlock." She smiled; no smell of alcohol in her words. "Come in," Harry replied politely, excusing the mess, although it wasn't that bad.

On one of the sofas sat a woman, looking sheepish and not knowing where to put herself.

"This is Clara. If John hasn't mentioned her, we were married but it went wrong, but we're thinking about rekindling our love." Harry and Clara both shared a sweet smile, one that even Sherlock couldn't deny was love.

Sherlock looked at her sceptically, but he knew what John would do and tried to do just that.

"Congratulations. I would say more but I really need these photographs." Harry ran off with an apology on her lips. She reached inside a cabinet, filled with draws and pulled one out. Handling Sherlock 2 photo albums, she asked if he wanted anything more.

Sherlock declined and went through the books quickly, scanning through the memories of John.

"Feel free to use any of them for photocopying, but please don't use the actual ones." Harry said, sitting down next to Clara. "Oh and can you tell John that I've been off the booze for 5 months and I would really like to see him soon?"

Sherlock nodded, thanked her and said he'd bring them back when he had finished. He was about to leave before Harry rushed to him beside the door.

"Sherlock, are... you and John... are you..." She tried to say it, but it felt so awkward and she felt under pressure by Sherlock's eagle-like stare.

"No. But-"

"Not by choice." Harry said, a smirk rising upon her lips. "John isn't known for stupidity, but he can be a right idiot sometimes. He doesn't see what he has." Harry gestured to Sherlock as she continued, "But you and John do make a very good couple, and I wish you luck." She waved him off as he stood in front of her door. Sherlock walked down the steps and called a cab, somewhat stunned.

Sherlock thought about what Harry had said. She seemed nothing like John had said, but he guessed she was really bad when under the influence of alcohol. He smiled at the way her last words went; He and John were a good couple. Many thought they were already, but if that were true, he was sure he would be a lot happier by now.

Parking outside of Baker Street, paying the cabbie and walking to the front door. It was a little darker now, casting a shadow amongst the streets. He climbed the steps; John was at work so he didn't need to be silent, until he heard a cough and a sniff from the living room.

"Sherlock?" The name was pronounced nasally somehow. He was shaken at his name, but quickly coming off the shock he ran to his bedroom and hid the books in his wardrobe.

When he walked into the living room he saw John huddled in a blanket sitting on the sofa, tissues surrounding him and shivering slightly. The telly was flickering, reporting sad news on silent.

"They sent you home." Sherlock stated, knowing John would work out it wasn't a question.

"Sarah didn't want me to infect any of the patients." John's voice was croaky and sounded terrible and his eyes were glazed over as he flicked his view to Sherlock's, "how are you?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, of course John would ask about his welfare, John was a natural doctor.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. Do you want anything; cup of tea, soup?"

John stared at him dumbfounded, "You're offering to make me tea and soup, are you sure you're okay?"

"If you don't want my help-"

"No, I'm sorry. That would be really nice, Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock went to start on that as quickly as possible. He boiled the kettle and getting a can of soup from the cupboard and plopped it into a sauce pan. He put it on the stove and waited for the kettle to finish. He poured the hot liquid in the mug, added milk and walked to the living room to give it to John. He nodded gratefully, and sipped from it, a sigh escaping his lips.

Sherlock went back to the soup, and realised how hungry he was, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything. He went to the fridge and got bread out. Taking 4 slices he cut them in half and put 2 on each plate. Depositing the soup into two bowls, he put one on John's lap and put the other on the table, joining John on the sofa.

John smiled warmly and thanked him in a better voice than before now he had drunk something. They both ate in silence while watching the news. John was praising him for eating to which Sherlock laughed wholeheartedly and grinning afterward.

After a while, John could feel Sherlock beginning to get restless and so suggested to do something.

"Nope, you are going to do nothing but relax. You need to get over this." Sherlock said then thought of an idea. "We could watch one of those films you're always on about." It was worth boredom to see John's beam and he nodded.

Sherlock went through their DVD collection, reading them out to John as he did. Once John had picked one, Sherlock inserted it into the player and sat beside John again.

About half way through the film he felt John's head hit his shoulder slightly, raspy breaths coming and going. Sherlock pivoted his body slightly toward John and his head fell on Sherlock's chest with a slight sigh.

Sherlock's arm circled round John's waist and he couldn't get it back even if he wanted to. Sherlock knew John was asleep now and whispered to him slightly.

"I thought you liked this film, and you've already fallen asleep." He shuffled slightly to reach for the remote and turn it down to a murmur. "Honestly, John." He mocked. But Sherlock couldn't get rid of the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He never got that analogy and thought it nearly impossible to get butterflies in your stomach, but he got it now.

He stared at John through the rest of the film and only noticed the credits had started to roll. Sherlock was tired, but knew if he were to fall asleep in this warm embrace, John would find it awkward and he wanted John to be in a good spirit for his birthday and the days before it. This cold was not helping.

So he gently moved away from the warm embrace and managed to shuffle without waking John up. Noticing a slight shiver from the sleeping doctor, Sherlock walked to his room, retrieved the blanket there, and draped it softly over John. He then realised the blanket John had before wrapped around his feet. Sherlock sighed; he didn't know how he missed that.

Looking at the clock, which said it was nearing midnight, Sherlock suddenly felt tired. Glimpsing back at John, he walked away from the scene and backstage to his bedroom.

All through the night, he thought of soft breathing across his chest and a solid body upon his. He did this till the early sun started to rise, signalling a new day.

0o0o0o

When Sherlock had fully woken up he walked into the living room in his pyjamas and dressing gown to see John was already awake, staring into space. It wasn't until he was walking to the kitchen that John spoke with a slight tremor in his words.

"Sherlock, thanks for the, um, blanket and watching... the film." John said, abruptly forgetting the film's title, annoyingly. But Sherlock smiled lightly and made John feel a little better after his awkward sentence.

"It was quite good, although all the explosions were too much and the plot line was a little... poor. But if you like it, then I do. However, you fell asleep half way through." Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Yeah, sorry about that, I'll blame it on the flu, not the quality of the film."

"Which you can't remember."

"Shut up."

They both stared at the other, not really knowing what the other was looking for but both reluctant to tear their eyes away. But finally, Sherlock looked away.

"Tea?" he asked as he looked down to his bare feet. When John had agreed, and said that he need to take a shower first though and complained about smelling of flu, which was a little redundant since Sherlock always thought John smelt nice. Sherlock shuddered at this thought; when had he become a blushing school girl?

He waited until he heard the padding of feet coming away from the bathroom that he put the kettle on. He picked two mugs from the cupboard, and began the routine. It felt domestic and to Sherlock, it felt peaceful and for a while his brain was pulled away from focus, and just let his body rule.

They drank their tea in silence when it was finished. John was sat in his arm chair while Sherlock to residence on the sofa. John was dressed in a black button-down top that suited him perfectly and blue jeans. John had lost his pale, sick look and seemed like he was on the road to recovery.

Sherlock told John he was going to Scotland Yard, which wasn't a total lie. Once he went into the building, and passed the wandering eyes of police officers who disliked him, he found Lestrade and asked for the photocopying machine.

Lestrade showed him and stayed there while Sherlock put the photos he had selected in it. He asked for colour and good quality – which he received.

"So, what's this about? Or should I say who's this about?" Lestrade asked, being able to glance at the photos.

"It's John's birthday tomorrow and this is part of his present." Sherlock said turning round to face the DI and was confused at the look that was upon his face.

"You are _making_ a present for John. I never thought you would buy a present, let alone make one. You and John getting serious?"

"We are not a couple, Lestrade." Sherlock sighed walking out of the door, while Lestrade followed. He said it for John's benefit as he always told people that they were not when they assumed they were.

"Oh come _on,_ Sherlock! You always boast on your observational prowess and yet you cannot see the way he looks at you." This made Sherlock stop and turn around.

"What?"

If Lestrade was shocked by the sudden stop, he didn't let it show "He looks at you like the sun rises and sets on you, the first time you brought him along; we could all see something was there. That's when we started betting on when you two would finally get together. No one ever expected it would go on for this long though." Lestrade stopped a second before continuing, "And I have never seen you look so happy, Sherlock, when you are around him. All through the, long, five years we've known each other I have never seen you smile like that around John."

Lestrade walked off, with "Think about what I said," flung over his shoulder.

It took a while for Sherlock to start moving again, but once he had it felt like the world was a blur. He didn't know how, presumably force of habit, but he had managed to arrive at 221B, with a cab driver shouting at him for the fee.

Sherlock kept thinking of what Lestrade had said, and nothing else was thought.

0o0o0o

It was the morning, and Sherlock had finally finished the present. He looked at his handiwork and smiled slightly, a picture in the middle was the two of them at Angelo's, with others around it. It looked brilliant, if Sherlock would be so bold.

He placed it in the box it had come in and put it under his pillow.

The night before John was able to sleep on his own bed; which Sherlock saw as a good sign. John looked as if he was happy the night before, maybe because Sherlock had made him two mugs of tea that day and cooked him, albeit, slightly burnt, toast with jam on.

Sherlock got dressed into his suit; purple shirt because he army doctor seemed to like that one more. He always complimented him when he would wear that shirt.

He walked out to the living room, and noticed the time; half past seven. It would be a while for John to come down, probably in between nine and ten.

Sitting in his arm chair, he paired his hands together and went through his mind palace.

He only got out of his trance when he saw John snapping his fingers in front of his face. He was kneeling down, one hand on the arm rest.

""Good morning, dreaming beauty. Tea?" He smiled, stood up and walked to the kitchen without a reply. Sherlock followed him immediately; and sneaked up behind him.

"Happy birthday." He whispered slightly. Sherlock missed the tiny shiver that ran down the other man's back.

In shock, John turned round. "You remembered my birthday?"

"Even better, I've got a present." Sherlock said, dashing off to his room. John forgot about the tea, which was very odd for him and sat on the sofa heavily; not believing what was happening.

The detective walked in cradling a silver box, with a nervous expression set on his face. Holding it out he carefully placed it on John's lap and sat down next to him.

John did double takes, looking at Sherlock and back down to the present. When it finally sunk in he lifted the lid, and held his breath.

"Oh, my God." He looked at Sherlock, "thank you so much, Sherlock." What Sherlock did not see coming was the force of the hug John was currently giving him. He had recovered quite quickly with this flu, maybe it wasn't a flu, maybe... but he didn't want to think, he wanted to feel John's warmth, the slight tickle from John breathing on his neck and he wanted this to last for a life time.

But John let go to look at the frame again. "You made it. Not the frame, but you got the pictures, I'm guessing from Harry, and... Just thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled "It's fine but I know you're unhappy about being a year older. But John, 42 is not old, it's not even past the big 50 and you're already complaining."

"It's easy for you to say. You're what, 36?"

"39."

"Wow, really?"

"I think I would know my own age, John. But thank you for the lower suggestion."

There was a knock at the door as Mr's Hudson came in holding a bunch of envelopes in her hand.

"John dear, happy birthday!" Mrs. Hudson chirpy voice rang through the apartment. "You have some cards from me and others. Quite a big one too."

Cards!

He forgot to get a card!

Without another word Sherlock is out like a shot, nudging past Mrs. Hudson and running down the stairs for his life.

"What was-" Mrs. Hudson began but John finished.

"He forgot the card."

0o0o0o

After opening the cards – Harriet, parents and surprisingly Lestrade (hand delivered), Molly and even Mycroft, John looked around the flat and huffed at the mess. Tissues were spread around everywhere, and mugs on the table, it looked just plain awful. He was hosting the party tonight, he couldn't do that with the flat looking like a bombs hit it.

John began to pick up the tissues and put them in the bin, but before he did, he noticed something with his name on. It was Sherlock's scrawl, and in black ink was 'John'.

Curiosity took over him; he picked that up and replacing it with the tissues, he sat down in his arm chair and opened the wrinkled paper.

_John,_

_A poem can hold many unsaid words,_

_Thoughts and feelings that are forever_

_They show joy, glee, heartbreak and woes_

_But no one ever sees the hidden treasure_

_John,_

_I am hanging on every word you say_

_I am falling in your deepest blue eyes_

_And although what I'll say will sound cliché_

_But it took me a while to realise_

_John,_

_If it is too much for you to bare_

_The fact that my mind falters when you're there_

_If it's too much for you to know I care_

_I'll forget, just please don't disappear_

_John,_

_I do not have your finesse in poetry_

_Even when I mock you when you do_

_And I realise nothing rhymes with 'poetry'_

_But I just need to say; 'I love you'_

_John,_

_I've been told I am nothing but a freak_

_And that I'm cold and have a heart of stone_

_But when I first met you, I felt like a bird when freed_

_And it's all because I met you John Watson_

_My John, forever, even if you don't know._

John thought he felt his eyes well up at this poem, the loving words that Sherlock wrote to him. It was then that John noticed more writing further down, a paragraph that truly stole his breath away.

_Sorry John, rhyming scheme is terrible, there is no rhythm, and you deserve a proper poet to write a decent poem for you, because you're worth it. I'm just sorry that I can't be enough for you. I'm sorry that I drive anyone and everyone away from you. I know it sounds utterly selfish, but I want you by my side as long as you can. And yet, I know you'll meet that special lady, and you'll get married, have children, and all in all forget about me. I try to stop thinking about this information that I force upon myself to try and live in a life I'm happy with. The life you give to me every day. But John, when that day comes, I promise you, I vow to myself, that I will never forget, I will never delete how much I love you right now. Because you're everything John, you're the deepest ocean blue, the first sight of a rising sun, the greatest friend I could have ever asked for, the gravity pulling me to you and you mean the world to me, you mean absolutely everything to me. And I realise that I'm repeating myself, but I just want to vent this all out in case one day I say these things to you, and you'll run away. I'd rather live in a life, denying my feelings, and keep you with me than live a second without you. However, I know one day I'll have to let you go, but now I just relish in the thought of seeing your smile the next time I see you, hear your laugh the next time I'm with you and the ways I fell when I can't get you out of my mind._

_I love you, John. More than I could ever say._

John stared at the paper. His eyes were wide open. He felt as if his jaw was on the floor. He didn't know what to do.

0o0o0o

Why were all the cards mentioning age or alcohol? Either wouldn't be any good. So he had to settle on one that didn't make any real sense and paid for it. He was walking down the street, scribbling in John's name – Happy birthday – and then his own name at the bottom in the pen he always carried around.

He started to walk up the stairs and walked into the eerily quiet room. He saw the top of John's head and started to walk towards it; he settled the card on his lap without looking at him and sat on the sofa.

"Okay, I forgot the card, I'm sorry, but I was just so caught up in..." His sentence feel away from his lips as he spotted what John was holding. His note!

No! No! No!

"John?" He didn't look round to Sherlock. "John, please look at me." Again, not even a flinch, John was just staring into space. Sherlock went and crouched by his knees, looking at John and in John's path of vision.

"Please, John, forget it. It doesn't mean anything-"

"It doesn't mean anything?" John's whisper came out.

"It doesn't have to. Look, John, I'll do anything to keep being friends with you." Sherlock reached out and took the letter from John's limp hands, "I'll forget about everything I wrote on here, I can delete all these feelings as long as you can stay here. Please don't go." He was pleading, he knew it and yet he didn't feel like he should stop. He had to keep John here, even if it meant losing his pride.

He was about to give up before John whispered "Don't."

What did 'don't' mean? Sherlock tried to think back to what he had just said, but he couldn't remember a thing. What was happening to him?

"Don't forget it."

Sherlock was perplexed by now.

"What?" He hated people asking to reiterate what he had just said but this was terrifying him. He was even wondering why John hadn't gone yet.

"Don't delete them."

"Delete them?"

"I won't go."

Then it sunk in, John was staying, he wasn't leaving but were they still friends.

"Thank you, John. It can go back to normal-"

"No."

Sherlock wished John would say more than just one syllable words. This conversation could have gone twice the speed if he did so.

"We were never normal." John cracked a smile, and Sherlock was just happy to have relief flood over him. "You were always extraordinary." There was a pause while John breathed deeply, while Sherlock held his breath. "I want it. I want us. Please."

Sherlock's beam could have lighted London, the UK, the universe as John said this. John was matching his own, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stretched his arms out and circled John's waist.

Both leaning in, and meeting halfway, the kiss was the matching of two opposite forces clashing together, but peacefully bonding with one another.

Sherlock's mind had short-circuited and couldn't do anything, so he just let his body go with the flow. John's tongue begged for entrance, softly tracing the rim of Sherlock's lips, and with a sigh was granted permission.

This is what Sherlock wanted. John, here, with him. Kissing him. Wanting him. He never felt so alive or needed or so loved. Never in his wildest dreams did he think this was ever going to happen.

When they parted he peeked his eyes open to see John smiling. His thoughts rushing back to him, Sherlock started to panic that he had done something wrong and John was laughing.

"Yesterday I was straight, this morning I was straight and now I am snogging your arse off, and wanting more."

Sherlock smirked cheekily, "don't let me stop you, doctor."

John chuckled, "As much as I would love that, we have my sister, your brother, your technically-boss, Sally, not Anderson; thank God," Sherlock breathed out in relief, "Molly and Mrs. Hudson coming up soon."

"How soon is soon?"

"Very soon, Sherlock."

He huffed impatiently, but then wanted to confirm something.

"So this is ongoing," He said gesturing in between them, "Us."

"Yes, please."

John leaned back in and the kiss they now shared was more passionate than last time, and had Sherlock on top of John in no time. Sherlock's hand roamed John's sides as his hands slid down the detective's chest.

John realising this, pushed him back gently, "None of this 'till tonight." He winked.

"Is that an order, Captain?"

0o0o0o

Having a room crowded with people was never going to be a place to think and reminisce, since they all insist of talking loudly. He didn't know why Sally was here but he didn't want to start an argument at John's party. Maybe she had come with Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson had made finger food and snacks which she brought up through the day. She also made drinks and insisted that John shouldn't move a finger on his birthday. There was also a banner on top of the mirror, saying 'happy birthday.' The DVD player was playing a collaboration of 80's and 90's Britpop, so that everyone was laughing and talking loudly.

221B had a glow. And it made Sherlock smile at how before when he looked at it, there was something missing. John was that missing piece, and he was glad he had finally found it.

Mycroft made his way over to Sherlock, leaving everyone on the far side of the living room while they were by the kitchen. Sherlock was secretly planning an escape route in his head to his bedroom where he hoped John would soon be. When everyone had gone, he was going to have a lot of fun.

"Congratulations." Mycroft said in dead-pan, "Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"You should be expecting on by the end of this night if I do it right." John had had a shower during the day, so he didn't notice Sherlock's absence. The box was in his inner pocket beside his rapidly beating heart.

It was worth the pondering of what to get for John to see the shock on his brother's face, before masked with a smile. "I hope you know I am proud of you, little brother. Though you didn't listen, I believe it to be the best for you. He is the best for you."

"I know. Also," he said leaning closer and whispering even quieter to what they were doing a moment before, "Lestrade is single and is beginning to gather an interest in you." as he said this, they both glanced at him to see Lestrade's hungry gaze.

Mycroft dropped his stare quickly, then proceeded to think about it for one whole second, and said quietly, "if you'll excuse me."

Sherlock laughed, actually laughed, which actually startled some. Getting over it, he pulled the letter from out of his pocket and memorised some of it, making sure he got it right and that nothing was wrong.

It took a while but the buzz of conversation was dying down and so Sherlock made his move. He moved to John and pulled him to his feet and off the sofa where he was talking to Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Everyone quietened when they saw this, and watched on as Sherlock knelt on one knee.

John's eye literally popped out of his skull, while Mrs. Hudson smiled smugly.

"John Hamish Watson. You are everything, you are the deepest ocean blue, the first sight of a rising sun from a horrible night, the greatest friend I could have ever asked for and more, the gravity pulling me to you was fast and strong, and you mean the world to me, you mean absolutely everything to me. And now that I realise this, I never want to forget this. So, I am here, down on one knee to ask you one question." This was harder than he realised as he stopped for breath, "So, John, will you do me the honour of becoming the only man I will ever love and marry me?"

The room was silent as they all waited for John's answer.

"Yes. Of course, yes. Definitely!" Sherlock stood quickly, placed the ring gently on John's finger and held on to his waist as he lifted him up and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Applause filled the room and masked the words that John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"We're celebrating the whole night long, you hear me?"

"Yes, Captain"

"And we will celebrate this for the rest of our lives."

"Yes, Doctor."

"And I will love you till the day I die."

"And I, John, will always love you." Sherlock settled John back on the floor, "having a good birthday?"

"The best. How will you top this next year?"

"I think it will be a good day for marriage."

Sherlock smiled lightly, leaning his forehead against John's, both smiling and looking at one another.

"Happy birthday, John."

**Thank you for reading.**


End file.
